


Gods be Good

by supercoolygirl



Series: Tumblr Prompts [4]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Outdoor Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-29
Updated: 2016-06-29
Packaged: 2018-07-19 00:18:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7336966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/supercoolygirl/pseuds/supercoolygirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jon is heartbroken at losing the life he thought he had. Sansa comforts him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gods be Good

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a prompt from delusionandfaith: Jon finds out Ned Stark is not his father. Sansa offers him comfort. Comfort comes in many forms. ;)

Sansa finds Jon in the godswood, hunched over, apparently sobbing silently. The shock of this usually sullen man appearing broken in front of her makes her burst from searching, hurried walk to sprint.

“Jon, Jon, what is it?” she cries as she embraces him, rocking him as a child.

He shakes his head silently into her shoulder and she holds him tighter, stroking his hair. She mutters inane comforts into his hair until eventually he stops sobbing uncontrollably and releases her.

“Please tell me, Jon. I am sure it is something you need not bear alone.”

Jon looks wildly around the trees, as if searching for the answer. “I…I do not know how to tell you… Where to start?” he gapes.

“Start at the beginning,” she replies firmly, looking at him with stern eyes.

He breathes deeply, frowns. “Eddard Stark is not my father.”

Sansa frowns, laughs. “What? Jon, don’t be ridiculous. Where could you have got an idea like that?”

“From the trees,” he says quietly. “From Bran.”

Sansa’s head jerks towards the weirwood. In wonder she reaches out to touch its terrible face. “You… You spoke to Bran?”

“I was praying and I heard him, Sansa, I swear it.”

“I… I believe you,” she marvels. She does not know how or why she does, but she is as certain that Jon spoke to Bran that morning as she is of her own name. “But then, who is your father?”

Jon gulps and looks to begin sobbing again. “My mother was Lyanna Stark,” he says instead, as if that were an answer. It takes Sansa a moment to remember the story of how her father’s beloved sister died, in a bed of blood, after Rhaegar – 

“Your father is Rhaegar Targaryen?” she whirls around to face Jon, incomprehension marring her features. He nods miserably. “Do you know what this means?” she laughs, suddenly.

“That I’m the descendant of a madman? That the first thing I did when I was born was kill a woman? That Father, I mean Lord Stark, lied to his wife and to his children to keep me safe? That the life I have been living is a lie?”

Sansa smiles softly at him. “It means that we’re cousins, Jon.”

Jon looks up from the point at the ground he had fixed his gaze on then. Whatever answer he is looking for he seems to find in her eyes because he, too, grins and moves towards her.  
“We could marry,” she continues. “The Lords are loyal to you, they follow you. The burden of King would fall to me once the news gets out but we can marry – you stay King and I shall be Queen, at your side. Neither of us would have to leave!

“And Bran is alive!”

She is giddy, excited, and pressing herself against Jon. His hand is pushing her hair away from her face. “So we’re not evil, after all,” he murmurs into her forehead.

They have never acted on their sinful desires, but it is plain as day that the feelings they share are not natural for a brother and sister. Their lingering looks and intimate touches have led to a quiet understanding between them. It would never be spoken of, but Sansa would eventually have to marry some Lord in order to protect themselves. But now this need not happen!

Sansa turns her face up to Jon’s lips and they meet tentatively. Electricity frizzes between them, down from her lips to her belly, where it settles into a slow warmth. Sansa opens her mouth and flicks her tongue out to his lips.

He welcomes her with a groan, his tongue gliding over hers into a sensual dance. Sansa is filled with relief that they are finally, finally doing this, and this relief adds to the warmth in her belly. She slides her hands up to touch Jon’s face, then into the hair at the back of his neck. Jon’s hands come up to her waist, then to the small of her back. Both of them are reaching for each other, slowly, desperately. There is a need in both of them to be as close as humanly possible and she almost thanks the gods when Jon begins to untie the laces at the back of her dress.

She throws off her cloak so Jon has better access, dropping it to the ground behind her. Jon breaks the kiss to place it more smoothly, before lying atop it. He reaches for her, pulling her down next to him.

His kisses this time are more urgent and he pulls her corset down in a rushed manner. She pushes her hand up under his tunic and feels the scarred, hard muscle there. It makes her whine, and Jon rolls on top of her.

He kisses down her neck, along her collarbone and down to the top of her corset. She finds herself thinking of how much easier this would be in summer, when she has fewer clothes on. They could come out here and – 

She bites her lip, shocked at her fantasies. But what better kind of worship for the gods than to love Jon the way she has wanted to for so long now? The gods have given him back to her, have made it so that her feelings were not wrong. This is the place to do this, she knows.

She tugs her corset down a little further so Jon can tug her teats free. He suckles one, then the other until she is breathlessly calling his name.

Sansa reaches for his breeches, untying the laces there and pulling Jon up to her. He looks at her and wordlessly understands what she wants, hiking her skirts up, before pushing inside her.

She tenses, briefly, expecting it to hurt the way it did with Ramsay, but no. It is only a lovely sensation of being filled. Her eyes flutter closed and she sighs, as Jon gives a low groan. He nibbles her ear and she runs her hand down his back.

The pause with Jon inside her, the way he should be, the way he was meant to be, feels like a beautiful eternity. But then he moves, and everything is even more beautiful.

The red leaves of the weirwoods, the white of the snow, the grey of the sky all seem to focus more intensely as Jon loves her. He is whispering her name into her ear and she is sighing, grunting as she thrusts her hips up to meet his.

It does not take long, and Jon’s hand is at her cunt as his thrusts become more erratic. He thumbs her there a few times until she suddenly seizes, calling his name out in a way that is sure to make servants come running. She clamps down on him and feels his warm seed spill inside her. He collapses on top of her.

She does not know how long they lay there, but his seed is drying on her thighs and the chill is starting to get to her. She shifts beneath him and he rolls off her. She tugs her corset back up, but it does not sit right, and she adjusts her skirts, but her shift is sticking to her and it makes them look squashed. She stands, helping Jon with her, who is lacing his breeches and squaring his tunic. He throws her cloak back around her, before pressing a chaste kiss to her lips.

“Let’s go tell the world,” she smiles.


End file.
